When an Angel Cries
by AudreyMetalMouth
Summary: "Good-bye," she whispers, and the terror in her eyes tell me it might be the last phrase I hear from her. - Not rated T and labelled tragedy for nothing, you know. No relation to my other stories. The characters are unknown until end. Thanks for reading.


When an Angel Cries

a piece of horrendous, awful, gut-wrenching tragedy that made me want to not write this

A/N: First of all, I would like to thank purpleskeemonkeys for being the very first reviewer on my stories and purpleskeemonkeys as well as Shaggelmalove for being so supportive when I was shaken up by this. Second of all, I would like to ask you to imagine whichever two characters you'd like in this particular story (Fred and Daphne or Shaggy and Velma) as the real characters aren't revealed until the end. Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry if you cry or kill me or both. This is a dream I had the night of Wednesday, November 3, 2010 and I woke up with my heart hammering and wanting to scream. Hopefully it won't leave you feeling the same way.

I'm sitting here in the living room when she slams my front door and blindly hurls herself into my lap. Surprised, I wrap her in a hug and start rocking. The carpet is thin from Mom vacuuming obsessively, and it hurts my tailbone, but seeing her like this hurts more. She's shaking with tears and finally she hiccups in between sobs, "H-h-h-he…"

"Shh," I soothe gently, stroking her hair, "it's okay. It's all okay. You're alright."

Then she turns her face up towards mine with those big, heartbreaking eyes and drives a figurative knife through my heart. "No, I'm not…he…he…"

I close the little distance between our lips and tighten my grip on her. Nothing is going to hurt you, I think at her. She's so small, so perfect – I'm not letting anyone hurt her. I slowly break the kiss, keeping her lips within a couple inches of mine, and ask softly, "Who made you cry?" I tasted her tears; she's the only person I know whose tears aren't salty, but sweet.

She moves her head to my shoulder and closes her eyes. "He's back…"

That's when I see the bruise, the size of a large fist, flowering neatly on her jaw.

I take hold of her chin and turn her head to face me. She inhales sharply when my thumb runs over the bruise, but she doesn't scoot away. "Who is he?" I ask her quietly, tracing the bruise with my fingers. A shiver runs down her spine involuntarily; I feel it against the inside of my leg. "Who is he?" I repeat.

"My dad," she whispers, leaning her head into my hand. "He's back. After seven years, he thinks he can just walk right back into our lives…he hurt Mom…"

"And you," I finish for her, wrapping her in a hug. She simply slides her arms around me and rests her cheek on my chest. She's close, so close. I move my legs to keep her in. "Do you want to move into my house? Mom and Dad wouldn't mind. They love it when you come over."

She sighs sadly and lets me press her hand to my cheek. "I wish I could. Mom needs me."

"You could."

She pulls her hand back and wriggles away, looking at me as she sits back on her heels and shakes her head. "No, I couldn't, Mom…" I touch a finger to her lips to quiet her. Then I move that hand to her cheek and kiss her again. She slowly caves in and lets me pull her back into my arms. It feels good. I hope I'm helping.

"Get your filthy, rotten hands off my daughter, boy!"

I jerk my head up to see a big, muscular man with a sour expression. She trembles and throws her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. I hug her back, gently rubbing her spine, and say, "Sir – "

He yanks her up by her wrist. "You are never going to see her again," he hisses, and I know it might be true in more ways than one. "Your mother is waiting on you, girl."

"Good-bye," she whispers, and the terror in her eyes tells me it might be the last phrase I hear from her.

So before he can slam my door in my face I tell her, "I love you." Her eyes meet mine and the man who dares to call himself a father slams my front door on me so hard the top hinge snaps.

I lie awake in bed tonight. All I hear from next door, from her house, is silence. And then, at 3:07 a.m., just as I've convinced myself it's alright, she's alright, there's a long, pleading scream. Then I know she's not alright, and there's nothing I can do to help her. I hear in the screaming everything I never wanted her to feel.

Desperation.

Writhing, horrendous pain.

And, most of all, defeat. Tortured defeat.

And I can't reassure her it's okay because it isn't.

In the morning I'm out the door without breakfast, which gets only a half-hearted "ah!" from Mom, because I know she's heard her too. I stop in the middle of the street, where all I can do is watch while police carry her to the yard from her house, blood still wet trickling from her mouth, under her fingernails, her palms. First her, then her mother, then her sister, all vacant-eyed and faces twisted in terror and pleas, and screams. My heart plummets, and it feels as though I don't have one anymore when the numbing starts, working its way out from where my heart should be. They take him away, but it's too late.

She's gone.

The next few days go by emotionlessly, empty of everything without her to make me smile, make me feel. I find myself in the cemetery, no knowledge of how I got here or how long it's been. And really, not caring. I drop down in front of her headstone and finally cry.

Someone hits me in the back of the head. I turn around to see a teenager, probably only thirteen or fourteen, with light brown hair barely sweeping her shoulders and blue eyes that scream at me. Tears are pouring down her face, and she whispers, "You were the only chance…you could have saved her, saved them, saved me…now look what's happened."

"I couldn't have," I try to say, but the words are caught in my throat. This girl is her step-sister; I remember her telling me about the younger girl her dad's second wife had.

"Look at what he's done!" She hits me again, with a violent sense of pain and angst. "He's killed her, killed them, killed me! You were the only one who could have possibly done anything!" She sinks to her knees, crying full-out now. "She was the only one who understood…" I try to hug the distraught girl, but she jerks away and stands. "You don't get it! He's killed us all."

"I know how you feel," I whisper. "I feel dead too."

She shakes her head fiercely."No, you don't get it…" She leans forward suddenly and presses her hands to the headstone. "I'll tell her you miss her. She says…" Her breath catches in her throat and she swallows. "…she says she's sorry she had to leave you. She loves you too." Then the teenager – her step-sister – gets up, turns, and walks away, slowly climbing the air and fading until she's translucent, and then she's gone. So. He really did kill them all.

I wipe my tears and smile sadly. "I'm sorry you had to leave too."

I let her headstone burn into my mind before I force myself to go home. I can quote it exactly, and I know I'll spend most of the rest of my life there beside it.

Velma Dinkley, Rest in Peace

And then what they let me add:

Shaggy's Angel

End.

A/N: So here I am, my head literally in my hands, feeling awful and wretched and ashamed of myself. I hope I'm not as horrible as I feel right now. Please tell me what you think. I promise I won't judge. If you hate it, that's wonderful. Someone else shares my sentiments. Thank you for reading. Hopefully your time wasn't wasted.


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